A Quickstep to Your Dirge

I hear the gravely nostalgia,

an inarticulate genre

of American roots,

strumming kindred

rolling blades...

A sharpening awareness

butter churns a wink

and a slow dance;

cheek to nipple, delivering

raised upturned brows

and crooked grins to

speak in silent tongues.

The swaying dance

of a token minute,

precedes a tidal moment

of a savory minuet;

timeless in fetching clutch

and whispering touch-

un fait accompli

head to head,

pinch and tweak,

thrust and squeak...

we save the sands

of the hourglass

in flip tide and green grass.

There's no sleeping

in the daylit hours-

efficiency has its just desserts

in rocking shores of an easy chair.